


like a demon, possessed

by calciseptine



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Dark, Guilt, Humiliation, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, No Lube, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possession, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gokudera finds out the hard way that there is no statute of limitations for possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a demon, possessed

**Author's Note:**

> Another unfinished piece from the KHR fandom that I had sitting on my hard drive, several paragraphs away from being completed. (I don't know if the rumors about Amano continuing the series are true, but it spurred me to look at my abandoned documents.) Please heed the warnings on this one, it gets a little weird.

"On your knees," you say.

Without hesitation, he falls to his knees.

It is a careless movement. His patellae crack against the dirty stone and filth coats his perfectly pressed slacks. He is seemingly unconcerned, his stare fixed unwaveringly on your face. If you had control over your body, you might have paused to stare at seeing such a haughty, feral man surrender so completely, so thoughtlessly.

You might have—but you have no control.

With an ease and precision you do not feel, your fingers unbuckle your black leather belt, and with a calm you do not possess, you unbutton your pants, and with one steady hand, you take out your dick. You want to scream, "What the _fuck_ are you doing?" but your vocal chords do not tighten—your fingers do instead, viciously, in his hair that is as soft as feather down.

_Strange,_ you think in a recess of your mind not hissing and spitting with rage and fear. You would have thought it coarse, if you ever allowed yourself to give thought to the texture of his hair.

With a cruelness you do not feel, you force his face into the junction of your thighs, and rub your limp dick against his smooth cheek. His skin is warm and softer than you can believe. Your cock begins to twitch and to fill, and jumps in your palm as you slide the head back and forth against the plush swell of his pliant mouth. The inevitable heat pools alongside shame in your gut.

"Suck it, Kyouya," you whisper, your words so thin they do not disturb the still and stagnant air. He parts his lips with an obedience that sickens and thrills you as he takes the whole of you into the heat of his mouth. Your mouth twists into a smirk when his nose bumps against your lower abdomen, saturated with a slyness you have never known. 

There's a threat of teeth against you as you harden fully against his undulating tongue. If you were in control, you would drop obscenities like you sometimes drop bombs, but then again, if you were truly yourself and he was truly his self, you would be exchanging sneers and blows and barbed insults. You would never know what he felt like against you, around you, would never be haunted by the way his skin looks against your skin. This is something you did not imagine—there are strange fantasies you create in the dark and then there are mad delusions—but now that reality has ensnared you, you are struck by how utterly wrong, how utterly depraved, and utterly erotic reality has become.

.

Once, when you were young and eager, another boy scratched you.

He drew your blood and possessed you; you were his living puppet. You could feel because it was your skin and your muscle and your bone. You could see because it was your eyes. You could taste because it was your tongue. You could hear because it was your ears. And you could die because it was your life.

You had no control then like you have no control now, and though it has been years, the disconnect of your will from your body is no less infuriating, no less terrifying. To know that there was no statute of limitations on his possession of you is like lead in your stomach, like a knife against your throat. You want to swallow to rid yourself of the heavy metallic taste that lingers on the back of your tongue, but you cannot.

"Enough," you say and don't say, and you pull back on the soft strands of his hair.The other man falls away from your hard cock with a slick pop; his normally pale lips are swollen and red, his irises are a sliver around his blown pupils.

You never thought about what he would look like debauched—you are not so masochistic to wonder about impossiblities—and you could not have known how he would embody all your depraved desires. Yet as you gaze upon him, you know with terrible clarity that this will be the prelude to all of your desires to come. This is what you will think of each and every time you feel that carnal stirring in your blood: his mouth abused, a fine and involuntary blush high on his cheeks, his sharp eyes uncharacteristically soft around the edges. The irises are mismatched, one blue and one red, but in your fantasies to come they will be the color of a storm cloud, crackles of violet and indigo in the periphery.

Hibari has always been beautiful. Like this, he is indescribable.

"Strip," you command. Your voice does not shake despite how shaken, how overcome, you are.

He rises to his feet, swaying as though he has vertigo. He undoes his tie, unclasps his cufflinks, unbuttons his shirt, unbuckles his belt, unzips his placket, and unties his shoes. You watch it all with your mismatched eyes—eyes like his, in your skull, but eyes that neither are not yours or his—and you are uncomfortable with the sharp and greedy hunger in your belly. Finally, he casts all his expensive clothes aside and stands before you, proud and disdainful still, in nothing but dark underwear that fits to his pale, lean thighs. You can see his erection, full and heavy, push against the fabric.

"Those too," you say, in an amused tone which you have never used. It seems ridiculous to you that your mouth would shape unecessary commands; the body before you is just as much of a puppet as yours, and the strings are being pulled by the same master.

The other man complies—as he must—and hooks his thumbs in the elastic waistband. Carefully, slowly, he stretches the fabric down his erection, revealing himself inch by agonizing inch. This is an act of humiliation, yet you still cannot control the simmer of pleasure building at the base of your spine.

When the underwear falls to his ankles, he steps out and away from that last scrap of clothing. His dick bounces against his lower abdomen with the movement. You stare at his beautiful cock, shiny and pink; it is thicker in the middle than at base, and his shiny cockhead pulls away from a ripple of dark foreskin. In your mind, the only part of you that is still you, that space that cannot be controlled or desecrated, you wonder how he might taste.

"Good boy," you purr, gesturing him forward. "Come here."

He obeys and presses his naked body against the clothed line of yours. The way he looks up at you is unbearably intimate, and you wonder what expression has been forced upon your face. You wonder if he can see how much you do not want this, and do.

Your fingertips alight like tiny birds upon his neck, his shoulders, down his torso, and against the blunt edge of his pelvis. You rake a nail over a dusky nipple and watch it tighten. Then you do it again; he gasps as your blunt fingernails raking over his sensitive flesh, giving him pain and giving him pleasure. Hisses escape through the cracks between his teeth as you do not stop, and his hips stutter, his cock rubbing against yours gracelessly.

This is not you and this is not him. Still, you wonder if in the space that contains him, if he thinks what you do: that this is not what he wants, that he would never do this, that he still perversely needs it so much he would do it if he were not possessed.

"Please," he whimpers as you ignore the way he undulates against you, even though you can think of little else. "Please fuck me."

You want to whine. It echoes through your brain with the strong stab of want that plummets into your stomach, sharper than the edge of a blade. He would never voluntarily plead—not for this, not for anything—but it cuts you to the quick nonetheless. You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his straining erection. It nearly scorches your cold, dirty palm. He whines and his body stretches with the pleasure of it, rolling onto the balls of his feet as his calf and thigh muscles tighten, pushing his chest forward, exposing the paleness of his throat.

"You want this?" you murmur against the hollow of his throat. Your tongue slides against his skin to taste the salt and anger that have gathered there. With a sudden twist of your wrist, your thumb gathers the clear pre-come leaking from his head and runs down the underside of his cock. The slick doesn't last and your nail pushes against the thick vein. "I don't think you do, Kyo-u-ya."

"I do, I do," he begs, his face contorted, a wanton travesty of his normally stoic mask. "Please, please, I need you to fuck me. I need you inside me. Please, do it, do it, do it."

You don't think you've ever been harder in your life, the guilt of which almost makes you ill. You've fucked girls, silly ones and mature ones, and you've fucked boys, effeminate twinks and closeted mafia men. The thought of dominating someone so desperate to have you was always an amorphous desire inside you, but now that it has been ripped from you, exposed and demeaned, you wonder how you could want anything else. So when you say, "Show me," you wonder if your mind is as unreadable as you think it is.

He pulls away from you and turns around, dropping to his hands and knees as though he's done it a hundred, thousand times. He parts his thighs so you can see the heaviness of his hairless balls, further and further until you think the angle might hurt. Then he shifts his weight from his palms to his chest and shoulders and cheek. He doesn't care about the dirty floor as he sucks three fingers into his mouth, making them so wet they shine in the dim light. Finally, when your eyes are dry from staring, he reaches around and presses all three fingers inside himself.

It is not the first time you've seen someone prepare their body for you, and you doubt it will be the last. Yet you take each detail—his twisted face, the angle of his spine, the gleam of his mouth—and burn it in your mind like a brand. You always thought he was unreachable and unattainable, like trying to touch a cloud; now he's begging for you, opening himself up for you, face against the dirty floor. You know that this should not be real—and it isn't, but it is.

"Enough, I think," you murmur too softly for him to hear, when his hole is still too tight around his knuckles. He stops nonetheless. You step forward, the sound of it resounding in the condemned building, and nudge one of his calves with your expensive leather shoe. He tilts his hips even further upward, undignified and obscene. When you go to your knees your red cock rests eager over the small of his pale back. He keens, as though your touch were unbearable to finally have, and you promise a sinister promise, "It's only going to get worse."

And then you push.

He's tight, so tight and you're cruel, so cruel. He screams, high and franatic, as your fingers form vices around his naked hips and pull back, lifting his pelvis higher than he could. He bucks, as though to get away or to get closer, and the muscles in his thighs and his lower back twitch unconsciously. You want to go slow, ease the pace, but he's in control of your body and he is relentless. Your lungs burn for air—you can't breathe and he can't breathe—but you hardly notice it for the heat and the squeeze around you. 

_Fuck,_ you would say if you could control the curl of your mouth. Instead, you tease, "You're so tight, Kyouya. I wonder if this is your first time?"

Those words are like bullets.

You remember your first time, years ago, from both holding and being held. You remember the tightness, the burn, the way you couldn't control the trembling in your limbs. It makes too much sense to actually be true, but you wish you could stop the piston of your hips regardless. You wish you could do this over, do it right, use your fingers and taste him before you took him, then ease in. You would take his cock in your hand and pull pull pull, until he was came over your fingers and tightened around you, until you came inside him and left him a hazy mess.

Yet what you want is irrelevant. You continue to fuck him, use him, and he bellows with the pain-pleasure of being used. He pleads, "Please, please, please, I need your cock, I need you to fuck me, fuck me hard, oh please, please, fuck fuck _fuck_ —" and he doesn't even touch his dick as you punish him for his imagined crimes. Your belt rattles against his thigh with each thrust and the zip of your slacks bites into the sweet curve of his ass, metal teeth against the gentle skin; he'll bruise from it, and it will linger for days.

The tightness never eases. His hole swallows you, barely slick from the scant of his spit, but when you press a thumb to the rim, it flutters greedily and takes that too. He moans at the sensation, a low and throaty sound that seeps into your skin. You're relieved, almost, as sweat pools in the small of his back and at his neckline, as he pushes back for more. You want him to feel the pleasure you feel, the sensation that nearly overpowers the sickness of being controlled.

Close to the end, you pull out of him and sit on the dirty floor. You squeeze the base of your cock hard—involuntary tears spring into the corner of your eyes—and you say, "Get me wet again."

His mouth is on you in a second. He is slobbers gracelessly over your unclean cock, taking it further than he is able to. You push him down futher than that and his throat flutters as he chokes. It feels wonderful against your swollen, sensitive cockhead.

"So good," you murmur as you hold him there. "Looks like your mouth is suited for more than snarling like an animal, Kyouya."

He coughs violently when you release him. You give him little time to recover; you grab his hips and pull him back down onto your dick, hissing in satisfaction as the tight heat surrounds you once more. He moans and wraps his lean arms around your neck. In this position, you are pressed together as intimately as lovers.

"I can't feel anything, you know," you say conversationally as he rides you, thighs trembling in exertion as he raises and lowers himself, grinding down violently. "I can't feel your pleasure or your pain. Nothing. It seems like such a shame when you seem to be enjoying yourself so much."

You look down at the scant space between your bodies. His dick is a vibrant red even in the dim light, and precome is smeared against the fine cotton of your tailored shirt.

"You look close," you murmur, rubbing a curious finger against the small slit. It's warm and slick and you repeat the gesture over and over. "How shameful would it be if you came like this? Stuffed full cock and barely touched?"

"I want it," he moans, mouth wet. "Please—I need it—"

Your laughter is delighted and cruel.

"Then take it," you say.

.

His orgasm comes long after yours. You lose yourself in the tight heat of his body. It is a tidal wave of pleasure and guilt that becomes sweet agony as he continues to ride you. You are a vessel, in more ways than one; this is not about you, but about him.

"Even your body is stubborn," you say as you lay down. You have not moved your finger from the bubbling slit in his cockhead and the fluid has become tacky. "Just let go."

You watch, as avidly as any predator, as he reaches back to spread his ass and take your half-hard dick as deep as he can. His dark hair sticks to his sweaty temples and his face and chest are flushed with exertion; he fills the air with enraged half-sobs. Frustration is evident in every line of his body.

"Or do you not want to?" you cajole, tapping his dick in thoughtful contemplation. If you had the power to bite your tongue in half you would. "I bet you want this to go on and on. Is the only time you unwind when you let someone else do it for you?" Your smile stretches tight and mocking across your face. "That's pathetic, Kyouya."

"Please," he cries. " _Please—_ "

"Must I do everything for you?"

He lets go between the barrage of insults that fall from your mouth and his forced pleading. He shouts as it pulses through him and you catch it in your waiting hand, a flood of white against your dirty palm. You milk him to make sure you have it all before you offer it to him. He eats it slowly, shaking with the aftershocks of his orgasms, cleaning your skin with long, rough drags of his tongue.

"Good boy," you praise, and with no warning, you are yourself again.

.

Your hand is slapped away and the body atop yours is gone within an instant. You blink, in a daze as you realize your autonomy has been returned. You sit up, your slacks still pushed down to your knees and the silver strands of your hair in disarray over your forehead. You look over at your companion as he scrambles for his tonfa before his clothes, holding them like a shield against his chest. The steel weapons look thin and brittle in the dim light.

"Hibari, what—"

"Do _not_ ," he snarls with more rage and acid in the syllables than you have ever heard. Long lines of red run from his clavicle to his pelvis; it was not you who did that, but his epithelial cells are underneath your blunt fingernails. Something like hysteria flutters inside your gut, and your cock gives a pathetic, apostatical twitch between your sticky thighs.

_This is so fucking wrong,_ you think as you watch him gather his things. Barely naked and inert, you do not—cannot—look away as he swiftly dons his crumpled clothes. The once immaculate lines of his suit are smudged with dirt and dust.

"I will only say this once, Gokudera Hayato," he once he has reconstructed his shell. It does not intimidate you as it did before. You know that he could kill you—and kill you with brutal relish and bloody satisfaction—but you cannot help but think of your cum dribbling from his tight, dusky hole, and the way his mouth went slack when he came. "Listen very carefully."

He stares into your eyes as he tells you to tell no one, that what happened between them never happned. You can see the rage condensed in the tense corners of his almost eyes and along the line of his straight mouth; and even as his words come, dangerous and low, you know that he knows you no longer fear him.

"Do not look at me that way, _herbivore_ ," he spits. In another lifetime, he would have stepped forward to press the end of his tonfa to your cheek, to warn you. "The only reason you are not dead is because you had as little choice in this as I did."

"No." You exhale a sigh like you would exhale a cloud of cigarette smoke, after deliberation and necessity. "No, I did not."

It is neither an agreement nor a denial, but he takes it and leaves you. You strain to hear the fading echoes of his footsteps long after he has gone; only then do you think of his body against yours, his chest to your chest, your nose against the long line of his throat. It was not him inside his body and it was not you inside your body, but the faint smell of soap against his skin is something that was not fabricated. The sensation of his body against you, around you, was as real as it was not, and the truths that you have discovered—about him and about yourself—will keep you a prisoner for much, much longer than Mukuro's possession ever could.


End file.
